A Letter to Mr Sherlock Holmes
by TotallyUtterlySherlocked
Summary: Lestrade has a 16 year old American girl as his intern. Annabelle is sweet as honey, but Sherlock isn't so convinced. Is there something more to Annabelle, or is the world's only consulting detective losing his mind?
1. Prologue

**A/N: MY FIRST CASE!LOCK, :D**

**OK, so my cousin and I have been talking and she had literally ALL THE IDEAS in this story. I'm just writing it.**

**DISCLAIMER: Annabelle is the only thing I own. I own nothing else. Don't sue me.**

* * *

I got the call yesterday.

"Hello, is this Annabelle Green?" The voice on the other end of the phone was distinctly _not_ American, but not exactly the British accent I expected. "Yes," I replied, getting up from the end of my bed.

"Congratulations, you've been accepted as an intern for Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade!" I couldn't stop myself from breaking into a wide grin. "Really?" I asked excitedly. "Really," said the woman on the phone. "You'll need to be packed and ready by this time tomorrow; your plane leaves at 4:00 PM." Immediately I threw open my closet and started rummaging until I found my suitcases. I thanked the woman and hung up the phone.

When my mother got home later that night I was almost done packing. "Where're you running off to?" She teased while she stood in my doorway as I threw clothes into my bags. "I got the internship," I answered nonchalantly. Her face froze, then she started laughing. "Oh my God, really?" I nodded. "Annabelle, that's wonderful!" She darted inside and gave me a quick squeeze. "I leave tomorrow afternoon," I told her, continuing to pack. "Well," she said, wiping her eyes. "I'll let you finish packing then." I smiled at her as she closed the door.

* * *

Waking up the next morning, it took me a minute to remember what had happened yesterday. I thought I'd dreamt it, but when I got out of bed and saw my suitcases neatly lined up against my door frame, I realized that it was true

I was going to London tonight.

I would be interning for New Scotland Yard.

After I got dressed and had breakfast, I went back into my room and pulled out the picture I kept of my father underneath my pillow.

I ran my fingertips over it gently. "I'll make you proud," I promised it in a whisper.

* * *

I called a cab to take me to the airport. After I made it onto the plane (which took _way_ longer than it should've; I mean, didn't anyone tell the airport I was coming?), I settled into my seat. The flight attendant told us to buckle up, and then we were airborne.

As soon as I could, I reclined my seat and closed my eyes. But I wasn't sleeping. I wouldn't let myself sleep until we'd landed.

I cursed my inability to use my phone, but it wasn't like they didn't already know. I _had_ texted them right before getting on the plane.

_**Will be in London by tonight. Plan to be executed starting tomorrow. -AM**_

I pulled out a manilla folder. Inside were pictures; pictures of the world's only consulting detective and his blogger.

Sherlock Holmes was going to pay _dearly_ for what he'd done.

He killed my father.

* * *

**A/N: Short prologue is short. I'm sorry. Please let me know what you think _and_ any theories you might have about where this is leading...**

**DFTBA, darlings, :)**


	2. An American Intern in New Scotland Yard

**A/N: Yeah, I use cheesy titles sometimes. FUN LITTLE CONTEST: people who can tell me (in a review please!) what book this chapter title rips off get a shout out in the next chapter.**

**DISCLAIMER: Annabelle is the only thing I own. Seriously. Please don't sue me.**

* * *

"Sherlock for God's sake, would you slow down?! We're early enough as it is!"

"There's no TIME, John! There's been a murder and I know Lestrade would've called us anyhow." Sherlock protested, practically sprinting down the hallway to Lestrade's office.

John rolled his eyes. "Prat," he muttered when they reached the door. Sherlock simply strode in without knocking.

"Oh. My. GOD!"

And was immediately tackled by a very pretty,_ very enthusiastic_ teenager.

"You're Sherlock Holmes!" An _American_ teenager. Sherlock gave her a strained smile, shooting John furtive looks that cried 'help me here!'. John grinned back cheerfully.

"Um, wow, it's so great to meet you." The girl's hands were shaking. "My name's, uh, Annabelle. Annabelle Green. I'm an intern for Detective Lestrade." She smiled nervously.

"Pleasure," replied Sherlock, sounding like it was very much not.

"Good to meet you," John said, glaring at his flatmate.

"Look this is a huge favor to ask but, um, my friends back home...they'll never believe me unless I show them proof I've met you. D'you mind if I get a picture with you?" Annabelle bit her lip nervously. Looking horrified, Sherlock gaped at John. John narrowed his eyes. Sighing, Sherlock pasted another smile on his face. "Of course," he said through gritted teeth.

Annabelle rummaged through her purse for a few minutes. She pulled out a digital camera and...oh God, John had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

"And..." She bit her lip again. "Would you wear this?" And she produced a deerstalker. "No," snapped Sherlock immediately. Annabelle looked crestfallen. "_Sherlock_," growled John. "John that hat is-" "Sherlock, just wear the damn hat for one picture." There was a brief staring match which John won quite easily. Sighing heavily, Sherlock snatched the deerstalker from Annabelle and plopped it onto his head.

"John, would you mind taking it?" She handed him her camera. "No, not at all." She moved to stand next to Sherlock while John stood back a bit and angled the lens. "Alright you two, smile!" When Sherlock didn't, John rolled his eyes. "_Smile_, dammit." "I'm already wearing the deerstalker," growled Sherlock. "Don't. Push. It."

And so Annabelle received a picture of herself, smiling beautifully, and Sherlock, scowling.

* * *

"So how long are you here for, Annabelle?" John asked after she put her camera away. "Until the end of August," she replied. "Wow," he said quietly. "Your parents will miss you." The girl smiled. "Yeah, but it's a great opportunity. I'm so lucky to be here, in London." She sounded awestruck. John grinned. She turned to Sherlock, looking nervous again. "I-I know you're really good at deductions and I was wondering if you could, um...deduce me?" Her face turned pink.

Sherlock actually looked pleased. John rolled his eyes. "He'd never pass up an opportunity to show off." After glaring at him, Sherlock spoke in rapid-pace:

"Judging by the stain on your shirt, you had a rather unsatisfying breakfast of a soda you had on the plane." He paused for a second and peered closer. "Coke. You've got a rip in your trousers which indicates you live with several siblings, all obviously younger than you as they were careless with your things. You've also got baggy pockets, so obviously a single income home. Your mother has to work multiple jobs, leaving you in charge of your siblings most of the time. Your mother works over 15 hours a day to keep all of you happy. Yes, her husband could be lazy, but then he would take care of the children, not you. Although you don't mind caring for your siblings, you blame your father for their divorce and his lack of involvement in your lives; he doesn't even pay child support. You try to get away from home when your mother is present because you also subconsciously blame her, but you try to cover it up by saying you're going out with friends, when really you just go to the park and sit for hours, because with all the extra work you have to do you don't have time for friends." He finished, nodded, and smiled.

Annabelle stared at him for a minute, then slowly returned his smile. "Very good, Sherlock," she praised. His smile broadened. "Almost all of it wrong, but then I suppose that was rather the point." She cocked her head. "My parents aren't divorced; my dad committed suicide a few years ago, and I'm an only child. I've also got plenty of friends." Her voice went cold with the last sentence.

Sherlock looked thunderstruck. "Anyway," Annabelle continued, her voice back to its cheerful tone. "You were here for Detective Lestrade, right?" John nodded since Sherlock seemed momentarily incapable of speech. "He's in a meeting right now, but you're welcome to wait in here for him."

At that moment, a phone began to ring. It had a _very_ familiar ring tone. As _Stayin' Alive_ played on, Sherlock looked more and more horrified. Annabelle swayed a little on her feet, seemingly dancing to the ringtone. "Sorry," she said. "I love this song, don't you?" Then she answered "Annabelle. Yes. I was just talking to Smarty-Pants and Do-Gooder. Uh-huh. Excellent, thanks." The entire time she was speaking, Sherlock shot John wild looks while putting two fingers behind his head like devil horns. John shrugged and put his palms up. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock hissed "She is the _devil_!" right after Annabelle hung up the phone. She frowned and put her phone back in her pocket. She looked as though she were close to tears.

John looked furious. "Annabelle, would you excuse us for a minute?" She glanced at him, still looking hurt. "Oh, yeah; sure."

* * *

John stormed out of the office after Sherlock. "What," demanded John, glaring at Sherlock. "The _hell _was that?!" Sherlock looked...frightened. "John," he said quietly, nervously. "That's _his _ring tone!" Immediately John softened. "Sherlock," John spoke slowly, as though talking to a small child. "Moriarty is dead. You _saw _him shoot himself." "Yes," snapped Sherlock. "And _you_ saw me jump off a building!"

Immediately Sherlock shut his mouth. John set his jaw. "Yeah," he said in a deadly voice. "I did." And he marched into the office, leaving Sherlock alone in the hallway.

* * *

**A/N: Don't forget about the little contest loves! Please review and...**

**DFTBA darlings, :)**


	3. His Name Was Richard

**A/N: This story is so much fun to write, guys, it really is. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE review, they mean SO much and I really appreciate them, like, a lot. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

It took John at least ten minutes to stop shaking. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this angry.

Actually, he could, but he wasn't going to think about that right now.

When he calmed down, he slowly made his way back into Lestrade's office and was nearly tackled by Annabelle.

"I'm sorry John, oh my God, I'm so so sorry!" Her voice was muffled by his shoulder. He awkwardly patted her back and she seemed to snap out of her reverie. Sheepishly, she let him go. "Also sorry about that," she murmured. "Probably not the best idea, huh?" John smiled a little. "It's fine," he said, and it sounded genuine. Annabelle hesitantly returned his smile before looking worried again. "Was it the nickname thing? It's just something my friends and I do, like the friend I was talking to is Creative Cat, and I'm Power Princess..." She trailed off. He shook his head. "No, he's just a bit...off, today." Annabelle looked dubious and she opened her mouth to say something but was promptly interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

"Mis-I mean, Detective Inspector Lestrade! Good to see you out of the meeting." She beamed at him. Annabelle darted over and produced a calender that looked like a rainbow had thrown up on it. "I took the liberty of organizing your calender," she said dismissively when both Greg and John looked at her curiously. "Orange is 'not your division', red is stuff other people asked you to look into, namely Anderson and Donovan..." She shuddered a little. "Green is your division, and pink is personal. Oh, and Mrs. Lestrade called. She wants you to pick up something for dinner; anything, so long as it isn't fish or chicken..._again_."

Lestrade blinked a few times. "Wow, um, thank you." He looked over at John. "Where's Sherlock? Thought he needed the case files." John smiled bitterly. "So did I. Apparently he needed to go do something more important. I'll take them though. I'll give them to him whenever I see him again." Lestrade gave him a doubtful frown, but John fixed his gaze on a point just above the detective inspector's head.

Sighing, Lestrade started to rifle through drawers. Annabelle motioned John with her eyes to follow her through a short corridor to a much smaller, neater office. "This is mine," she said proudly.

"It's...nice," replied John. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Listen, Annabelle...I'm really sorry about what Sherlock said about your father." She smiled a little sadly. "It's...well, it's not okay, exactly, but it's better than it was." Her eyes were looking out the window but her mind was obviously miles away. "His name was Richard," she said in a quiet, distant voice. Once again, John was saved replying by a knock at the door. He and Annabelle made their way back into Lestrade's office.

Greg handed John a thick tan file. John nodded his thanks. "Things are getting weird, John." Lestrade looked worried for just a minute. "It's London," replied the doctor, smiling. "Of course things are weird." And Lestrade just shook his head. "No, not London weird. Murders have been on the rise for weeks now, and none of them are the same. No signs of a serial killer, no signs of gang violence. The bloody number of them is sky high and I can't understand why..." He ran a frustrated hand through his greyed hair.

"Well," said John. "That's why Sherlock needs this, right?" He waved the folder in his hand.

* * *

Idiots. All of them; gullible, naive idiots.

As _Greg_ (gag me please, I loved getting on his nerves; God, his face when I pulled out that calender...the pet peeves that ordinary people have are so amusing) and John jabber on about the murders, I slip into my office and grin. "You've no idea, do you?" I muse to myself. I rest my elbow on my knee and prop my chin on my palm. My phone starts to ring and I immediately set it to vibrate: the ring tone has done its job, and now it's just getting annoying. I glance at the screen and smile to myself:

_**Next phase beginning. Hope you're ready for this. -SM**_

**_Of course I'm ready, idiot. Go ahead. And don't forget the letter. -AM_**

I quickly delete the message. I always err on the side of caution, even if I am dealing with imbeciles. Wouldn't want Sherlock to see _that_ message, it would ruin all our fun.

I'm so lost in thought that I almost don't hear the insistent ringing of the landline on my desk. I let it ring for a bit longer, grinning. Now, this is my time. My father had his chance; now it's time to make these stories mine.

* * *

Annabelle came back into Lestrade's office, slightly pale. "There's been another murder. The initial sweep turned up blank; no prints, no stains, hell, the killer even wiped off all of the wine glasses." Lestrade looked back at her, confused. "Wine glasses?" Annabelle nodded. "Yep. The body was found right in one of the booths at Angelo's. Bullet straight through the head. John..." Annabelle paused, seemingly weighing the positives and negatives of what she was about to say. "I know you may not want to speak to Sherlock right now but...call it gut instinct: we are definitely going to need him."

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**A/N: Sorry this took so long to get out to you guys. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE review! I love feedback.**

**DFTBA darlings, :)**


	4. Not the Only Professional

**A/N: Hi! I really hope you guys are enjoying the story so far; it's hard to tell because no one else has reviewed, :c I REALLY love reviews guys. Even if they tell me my writing is shit, at least it's feedback. So please review this chapter once you're done reading it!**

**DISCLAIMER: I only own Annabelle. Please don't sue me.**

* * *

"How'd the Freak get here already?" Donovan sounded a little surprised.

John looked just as surprised. "I...have no idea. I haven't even texted him," Sherlock glanced up from where he was already examining the body. "_Murder_, John. Do you honestly think I need a text to bring me here?" He rolled his eyes and John swore he heard him mutter "_Idiot_" under his breath.

"What've you got so far?" Lestrade was close behind John and he stood with his arms crossed, gazing down at the body.

* * *

The victim was a man in his mid-forties, short but fairly muscled. His eyes, which in this light appeared brown, were wide open. His mouth was frozen in a silent scream. The cause of his death was almost immediately apparent: a single gunshot wound to the head.

"Poor sod," murmured John, while Sherlock fairly laughed in glee. Annabelle, who was leaning against the door, looked almost bored. John broke off from the group and went over to her. "You alright? You seem to be taking this pretty well considering there's a man lying dead right in front of you." He gestured to the body. Annabelle nodded. "I'm sort of used to death," she shrugged. "My mother's a police officer, and when I was younger I was constantly around her office. She even took me to a few crime scenes. And my father...he committed suicide, of course. Mom's not one to hide things, so she showed me all the pictures..." She bit her lip a little. For the second time that day, John opened his mouth, intending to say "I'm sorry", when he was seized by the arm and pulled away from the door.

"John, I need you," said Sherlock dismissively. "Oh, _now_ you need me?" "Obviously," replied Sherlock, squatting to examine the gunshot wound.

* * *

"Something's not right..." Sherlock muttered. "This is too clean, far too clean a shot for anyone, even an expert marksman to make." He sat back on his heels and ran his eyes over the body.

Suddenly he sprang up from the floor and over to John. "What?" Sherlock was inches away from him, studying his face. "He looks like you," Sherlock said in a quiet, horrified voice. John laughed a little. "_Him_?" He looked at the body. "He looks nothing like me, Sherlock! His hair's the entirely wrong color for one, and I'm definitely not _that_ short." Sherlock almost smiled but stopped himself. "Minor details John. Look at his face. Don't just look. _Observe_."

John made his way over to the man and examined his face. "Is my nose really that big?" Sherlock sighed. "You're missing the point, John. This is meant to be a substitute for _you_." He sounded almost frantic. "What?" John lead Sherlock a bit away from the crowd.

"Look, Sherlock." He said quietly. "I know you're really paranoid about this 'Moriarty's not dead' thing, but this? _This _is the kind of behavior that would get you kicked out of this place." But Sherlock wasn't listening. He was still staring at the body. "John, do you remember our first case?" John nodded. "Of course. The cabbie." Sherlock pointed. "And that's where we sat the night you lost your cane, right before we chased the cab. He's sitting right where you were." "Amazing," blurted John before he could stop himself. "I can't believe you remember that." He shook his head. "But still, it's...it's not _me,_ Sherlock. As ridiculous as you'll think it is, I honestly think that this is all just coincidence."

And he wished he hadn't said that. Sherlock's face darkened. "There are no coincidences," he said coldly. "Never."

* * *

"...based upon the neatness of the entrance and exit wounds, it's obvious that this was intended to mirror a military style firing squad." "Hang on," sneered Anderson. "There's only one gunshot wound. How could it've been a squad?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "Yet again, Anderson, I am astounded by your observation skills. There was indeed only one gunshot wound. You'll note however, I said _mirror_. Now kindly shut your mouth and don't speak again. Leave it to the professional." He smirked. Annabelle laughed quietly from her spot by the door, and Sherlock frowned at her. "At least give Detective Inspector Lestrade a little credit," she said with a smile. Only Sherlock noticed that it didn't reach her eyes.

* * *

I hope you'll get used to the idea of not being the only "professional" in the room soon, Sherlock. Because you're not, and as long as I'm here, you never will be.

* * *

"Okay then," said Lestrade, breaking the awkward silence. "Anderson, collect a sample from our unlucky victim here." "And please," growled Sherlock. "Try not to contaminate anything more than you already have." Anderson smiled bitterly. "If you think I do such a fucking bad job, why don't you get the sample yourself?" Sherlock pressed his lips together. "Fine," he replied coolly. He approached the body and made quite a show out of collecting some dried blood that was left caked around the wound. He was bent low to the floor, when suddenly he saw something under the table.

"Find some interesting gum down there, Sherlock?" John's voice startled him so badly he almost smacked his head on the bottom of the table. "No, it was nothing." Sherlock dismissed quickly. He immediately filed a note to himself in his mind palace: this required further investigation. Preferably, with no one else around.

* * *

Meanwhile, seeing Sherlock's investigation, Annabelle smiled slowly. This time, it reached her eyes too.

* * *

**A/N: Please please review! They're like a good serial killer for Sherlock, :)**


	5. Yet Another Fairytale

**A/N: Enjoy!**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but Annabelle. Please don't sue me.**

* * *

"Where are you going?" John glanced up from his laptop to find Sherlock putting on his coat and scarf. "Out," grunted the detective. "That's incredibly helpful Sherlock, thanks for all that informa-" John's sarcasm was immediately silenced by the sound of the door slamming.

He shook his head and turned back to the screen. He'd somehow found himself spending the last few hours doing a little research on Annabelle and her father. The suicide seemed to have been kept fairly quiet, because he found next to nothing about Richard's death. No, looking up 'richard green death' seemed to only bring him information about the fictional Richard Brook. And _that_ was enough to make John close his laptop with a huff.

* * *

It was easy enough to get back into Angelo's; all Sherlock had to do was pick the lock. No security systems to bypass, no guards, nothing. How dull.

As soon as he'd taken a cursory glance around (_Anderson ruined any evidence on that floor and that booth idiot how does he even have a place on this_ _force_), Sherlock threw himself on the floor and reached out a hand to slide the envelope out from under the table.

He examined the envelope first. It was thick, cream colored. This looked like paper ripped straight out of the 20th century. How curious. His mouth went dry when he read the front. 'A Letter To: Mr. Sherlock Holmes'.

The seal, though, now _that_ was fascinating. Classic wax, but the design...oh yes, this was interesting. Blood red but marked with an elegant cursive white 'M'. That was enough to make Sherlock uneasy, but then he saw what was above the 'M'.

A crown.

* * *

He hated to destroy the envelope, but...then again, it was clearly addressed to him. And he wasn't very good at denying himself anything that he saw as _his_.

So he pulled his pocket-knife out of his coat and slit open the letter.

* * *

_Hello. Are you ready for the story?_

_This is the second story of Sir Boast-A-Lot. _

_Sir Boast-A-Lot was exiled from the kingdom, never to return again after he was proven to be a liar. But his faithful page wouldn't lose faith in Sir Boast-A-Lot, and never gave up on him._

_And one day, Sir Boast-A-Lot returned. He had even more outlandish tales of dragons he'd slain. This time, everyone ate. It. Up._

_One day, Sir Boast-A-Lot and his page vanquished the most terrible dragon of them all. The dragon's daughter saw them, but she knew killing Sir Boast-A-Lot wouldn't soothe her rage. She decided to have a little fun with them._

_But that isn't the end of Sir Boast-A-Lot's story. No._

_It's only the beginning._

_PS: I guess he really DID have bad days..._

* * *

The cursive writing was neat and perfect enough to be a word processor font. He recognized that handwriting. He'd never seen it in cursive of course, but that, coupled with the period in Mr. marking the writer as American...well, Sherlock had a good idea of who was behind all this.


End file.
